


all you have to do is call

by localgaysian (leslytherinphoenix)



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Friendship, Not A Scooby Doo AU, Plot, Post-Canon, mentions of minor character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8079619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslytherinphoenix/pseuds/localgaysian
Summary: “It's just a Ghostbusters thing,” Erin said, grimacing. “God, when will people stop with that? It's like, you're an international sensation 'cause of a thing for two years and people never leave you alone about it.” Four years post-breakup, each Ghostbuster receives an email from the reclusive owner of Spooky Island. Past & eventual Holtzbert.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pfff, this isn't (loosely) based on the masterpiece that is Scooby Doo (2002). Why would you say that?

“And you know wherever I am / I'll come running / to see you again / winter, spring, summer, or fall / all you have to do is call”

                                      - Carole King, "You've Got A Friend" 

 

July 21st, 2022  
7:42 P.M.  
Battle Creek, Michigan

  

“You know, today's her birthday,” Erin said, voice perversely playful. She tapped a box with her foot. Something rattled inside; Erin hoped it wasn't fragile. On second thought, it didn't matter. Everything was going anyway. She'd inherited all of it and wanted none of it.

 

Her cousin Rita sighed and finished taping the last of the boxes closed. “Erin.”

 

“Rita.”

 

Rita sighed again. “Are you going to help me carry these outside?”

 

Erin motioned weakly towards the boxes scattered across the living room floor. “Are those the ones for the garage sale?”

 

“Yup.”

 

Erin picked a box up, grunting. “Shit, this one's heavy. It hurts my hands.” She set it down and rubbed her hands together. Angry red marks streaked across her palms.

 

Rita shrugged. “I think that's the wedding china.”

 

“Figures.” Erin nodded to herself and considered picking up the box again just to drop it. It would save her time. “Happy birthday, Mom,” she said dully. “I'm selling your wedding china. Because you're dead!” She chuckled humorlessly.

 

“That's not helpful.” Rita straightened up, hands on her hips. When Rita got annoyed, she looked sort of like their grandmother. Or maybe a very ticked-off horse. “It's not a good way to process grief –”

 

“Shove your Bachelor's degree in Psychology with a minor in Business Administration up your ass,” Erin snapped. “I process how I want.”

 

Rita opened her mouth, about to bite back. Just before she was about to unleash the greatest psychologically-appropriate insult of her life, a phone pinged, a clear, crystalline sound that only exacerbated her headache.

 

“Wanna get that?” Erin asked, pointing at Rita's phone.

 

Rita rubbed her temples. It didn't help. “It's not yours?”

 

“I think you're the only person still talking to me,” Erin admitted. Aunt Jenny hadn't spoken to her since the phone call. Her other cousins were suspiciously busy. And her mother was, well, dead. Not that she'd done much talking before that.

 

“But you're such a ray of sunshine,” Rita said, pulling out her phone and checking her notifications. “Nope, nothing. Guess you missed a dentist's appointment or something.”

 

Erin set the box down and reached for her phone on the mantle. “Just an email –”

 

Her voice faltered. The subject line was “A Job For The Ghostbusters!”

 

Erin cleared her throat. “It's just a Ghostbusters thing,” she said, grimacing. “I actually think I prefer the dentist.” She set her phone down and started pacing across the room. “God, when will people stop with that? It's like, you're an international sensation 'cause of a thing for two years and people never leave you alone about it.”

 

Rita tilted her head. “One of your old friends?”

 

“Haha.” Erin stopped walking. “No.”

 

Rita pursed her lips. “You should really –”

 

“Rita.” Erin crossed her arms. “Do you want a cut of the garage sale proceeds or do you not?”

 

Rita shut her mouth at that.

– 

July 21st, 2022  
7:42 P.M.  
New York, New York

  

“Patty?” Kevin swung around the firepole. “I'm going to take off for tonight; Mike Hat Jr. has been having bed wetting problems and I better go check on him.”

 

“Your dogs have peed in your bed and you still let them sleep with you?” Patty asked, grimacing. “Okay, Kev. See you tomorrow.”

 

Dr. Tolan pushed her spinny chair away from her desk and rubbed her eyes. Being New York's sole surviving Ghostbuster was a lot of work – not surviving, Patty reminded herself. That made it sound like the rest were all dead. Left over was a better phrase, though that made her sound like lunch meat. She'd had a four hour conference call with Abby (by which she meant Abby's assistant) earlier that day, along with a buttload of papers to analyze from the mayor. There wasn't much to bust these days anymore – which didn't mean that there wasn't a lot to study, buildings and parks and housing tenements to try and predict where ghosts would crop up next. Dull, boring work – nothing like what Abby was doing, or, for that matter, Holtzmann.

 

Probably better than what Erin was doing right now, though. That made her feel a little better.

 

The firehouse seemed too quiet after Kevin left. Her assistant Sara– her protegee, Patty supposed – had the week off, and she didn't live at the firehouse, anyway. “I need to separate work and my life,” she'd said when Patty offered her the back room. Blah, blah. Patty's work _was_ her life, at least most of it. The only full-time fully-trained Ghostbuster left. She had interns, but they always came and went. Besides, they were little creatures, too afraid to snap at her or even talk back with a hint of character in their voices. They were just there – filing, doing (unimportant) research, getting her coffee.

 

Patty opened up her laptop and logged in, typing random words on the keyboard as she waited for her browser to fire up. This was her sad, nightly routine – well, not really. She still had friends. But every night, or most nights, she came back to an empty firehouse that really seemed to big for one person to live and work in. Oh well. She wasn't afraid of ghosts anymore, just the way it felt when she woke up and knew that there should be someone laughing or talking or using a chainsaw – long story, but it happened – above or below or next to her. And it was hard having to eat entire pizzas by herself. Kevin constantly went on bizarre diets, ranging from “I'm only eating animals with white fur” to “I'm doing a vodka cleanse” so he couldn't exactly be counted on to finish up the three slices of pizza that Holtzmann would have definitely swallowed in more or less a single gulp, or the pepperoni that Patty didn't like to eat that Abby would always steal off her plate.

 

But that was that, and there was nothing she could do about it.

 

She checked Facebook – little cousin getting married today. Adorable. Patty pulled a face. A friend request from a lady she'd met at a guest lecture she did at Brown a while ago. She considered checking on Holtzmann or Erin but decided it wouldn't be worth it; they never posted anything anyway, and even if they did it wouldn't make her feel better. She accepted the friend request, then logged out. Drumming her hands on her laptop, she thought about what to do next. Okay. Email. Professional, personal, the one she used to stalk that competitive little douchebag she did her doctorate program with on Quora.

 

Nothing on the professional email. The Ghostbusters were officially downsized and lame. Not that the mayor wanted to believe that – when Mayor Bradley had finally left office, Mayor Mills outed herself as a giant science geek and Ghostbusters fangirl. Funding was still coming in; it was just the ghosts that had stopped. Sure, there were some Class II hauntings here or there. The occasional Class III. But nothing Patty couldn't handle alone. Sometimes, she sorta wished for something drastic, just so she would have something to do.

 

Her personal email was nothing unusual, an invitation to a dinner, an intern application. Sara'd emailed her to check in. She was in Singapore visiting family and included pictures. Sara smiling with her girlfriend's arm around her waist. Sara smiling even though she was sunburnt. Sara smiling with a coconut in her hand. Sara smiling on the back of a pink dolphin.

 

Bitch.

 

Patty refreshed the page, hoping something distracting would come up. And sure enough, a little bolded unread message greeted her, and Patty was pathetically relieved.

 

_Subject: A Job For The Ghostbusters!_

 

Patty snorted. Ha. The Ghostbusters. More like the Ghostbuster, singular.

 

She closed her laptop, suddenly extremely tired. Nothing like going to bed early on a Thursday night. She picked up a book off the bookshelf to take to bed and trudged upstairs to her room. It used to be the room they used whenever one of them was working late and too tired to go home. Now, Patty had gotten a loft bed installed where there used to be bunkbeds, a desk nestled underneath for reasons she couldn't quite fathom – more like another place to store her clothes rather than to work at. She looked around the little room and sighed. It was nice to live rent-free in New York City. Even if she was alone.

–

July 21st, 2022  
6:42 P.M.  
Chicago, Illinois 

 

“And that is how we caught the one and only IKEA ghost,” Abby said, clicking to the last slide of her eighty-slide presentation. It was a picture of the four of them, lounging on various pieces display furniture – Patty with her legs hanging off the edge of a loft bed, Abby herself lying across the desk under it, Holtzmann trying to fit into an egg-shaped chair, Erin sitting on a plain wooden table trying to push Holtzmann out of the egg-shaped chair. Her students laughed nervously, scrambling to finish writing down what they remembered. Abby let them write for a few more seconds, then cleared her throat. “Now, who can tell me how we approached this bust, using the principles of Ghostbusting?”

 

A hand shot upward. Abby followed it down to the owner, a tiny girl with big green glasses who, Abby, was pretty sure, was a rising high school senior taking the class for early college credit. It was something in the way she actually still participated in class and had about sixteen different writing utensils. Abby was pretty proud of herself for figuring that out. “Mainly, I believe this relates to the cardinal rule of Ghostbusting. Preparation was vital in this case because of the added danger of the furniture.”

 

Abby motioned vaguely. “Elaborate.”

 

“Well, there was significantly more material for the ghost to interact with in this case than, say, in a Central Park case. I also believe that's why you chose to move the fight away from the heavy furniture and into the ball-pit in the children's area.” The girl adjusted her glasses and shifted in her chair.

 

Abby blinked. “Well done,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Okay, class time's almost over. This is the last time I'll be seeing you all this summer, so play it safe, stay cool, and see you in the fall!”

 

They filed out of her classroom, slinging bags over their shoulders and whispering to each other.

 

“And remember that your final paper is due on Friday!” she called after them. “Have it uploaded by midnight! It's worth 80% of your grade!”

 

Drat. They probably hadn't heard her. She'd have to send another email.

 

Abby didn't necessarily like summer teaching, but she was still the most senior – and the only – full-time professor of Paranormal Studies at the University of Chicago. And summer classes were filled with people who were genuinely interested in the subject, high school students taking classes, and mothers trying to get degrees in part-time. It made it worth it – a little break from the rich white intellectuals that normally filled her lecture halls during the regular semesters. Besides, she had six glorious weeks of freedom ahead of her after this, after she was done grading those papers at least. Still. Utterly doable. And then she'd maybe go back to New York and see how Patty was doing, or start developing another research project. One of the two.

 

She sat down at her desk and pulled up her email. Better send a reminder now before she forgot, or she'd have hordes of desperate students at her next office hours. _Hey everyone,_ she typed. She preferred to use a casual tone with her students. _This is just a reminder that your final paper is due on Friday! It's worth 80% of your grade, so don't forget! :) :)_

 

She sent the email and checked her inbox. Her assistant emailed with an update, apparently he'd talked to Patty today. She skimmed it, just a briefing on some cases she'd worked on. Patty had asked her to look at a file. Abby made a mental note to do that later and went back to her messages. Someone asking for a letter of recommendation – she remembered the kid: shy, reminded her of Erin a little. She wrote back _you got it, dude! When do you need it by?_ And then an email that she didn't think was from a student, something she nearly dismissed as spam. Subject line: A Job For The Ghostbusters!

 

She considered deleting it. She was busy; she had a job; she wasn't (unofficially) even a Ghostbuster anymore.

 

Her gaze flickered over to the image of the four of them at IKEA, still projected onto the wall. After the picture had been taken, Holtzmann had eaten about twenty meatballs. Then they bribed a worker to let them into the kiddie area and showered each other with balls from the ballpit. Erin and Patty teamed up – somewhere, Abby still had a picture of Erin on Patty's back, both of their mouths open in a war-cry.

 

Something in her chest panged, a yearning she couldn't quite explain.

 

“Okay,” she said, out loud, to her computer. Immediately embarrassed, she glanced around to see if any of her students were hiding in the room. Assured that there was no one, she leaned back into her screen, clicked the email, and started to read.

–

July 22nd, 2016  
1:42 A.M.  
Meyrin, Switzerland

  

“Holtzmann.” Dr. Gorin knocked on a lab table. Holtzmann stirred, nearly sliding off the spinny chair she'd fallen asleep on. “Jillian Joy–”

 

Holtzmann shot upright. “Okay, I'm up,” she said, trying to smooth out her rumpled clothes. “You really don't have to say my middle name.”

 

Dr. Gorin smirked a little. “It's fun.”

 

“Everything okay?” Holtzmann asked. “Please don't tell me my unicorn got out again.”

 

“You really have to stop making jokes about that.” Dr. Gorin sat down on a lab stool across from Holtzmann, shaking her head. “Dr. Ehrl thought you'd exposed a horse to radiation.”

 

The corner of Holtzmann's mouth twitched. “I thought it was Professor Dr. Dr. Ehrl.”

 

“It is.” Dr. Gorin shrugged. “I warned you Germans were like that.”

 

Holtzmann tilted her head to the side. “I didn't think he would have anything against a unicorn--”

 

“Anyway, Jillian,” Dr. Gorin said, “I've come to tell you that it is time for your yearly vacation.”

 

Holtzmann wrinkled her nose. “What? Can't I get out of it this year?”

 

“You know the Europeans,” Dr. Gorin explained with a wave of her gloved hand. “They like to do things like give people time off.”

 

“Even when they don't have children?” Holtzmann's voice was low, horrified.

 

Dr. Gorin nodded. “Even when they don't have children.”

 

“That's horrifying.” Holtzmann shuddered. “I think this time I'll just sneak in through the back. That's okay, right? Maybe I can use the fire escape.”

 

“No, Jillian.” Dr. Gorin sighed. “You have to actually not come to work.”

 

Holtzmann chewed her bottom lip, looking at her computer next to her. “When's the last time you went on vacation?”

 

“I was gone for a month in the spring,” Dr. Gorin said flatly. “You didn't notice?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Holtzmann scratched her head. “That was the month no one tried to make me eat fruit.”

 

“Ha, ha.” Dr. Gorin stood up. “Well, Jillian, you've got a month off. Starting next week.”

 

Holtzmann hesitated, then pushed the chair forward so that she almost crashed into Dr. Gorin. “What am I supposed to do?” She whispered.

 

“Make yourself a unicorn,” Dr. Gorin suggested. “Next week, Jillian. You better not show up.”

 

She left the room. Holtzmann whimpered. All the time ahead of her and no one to see, nothing to do. And she didn't have an excuse – she'd just finished a project, there was no momentum to lose. They'd had two scientists return from parental leave in the last two weeks, so they weren't understaffed. And poor Jillian Holtzmann would have to find something else to do. Maybe Disney World Paris. Maybe London. Maybe she could call – no, not Patty. Patty didn't want to see her. Abby had better things to do. And every time her thoughts even _neared_ Erin, there was a tiny little pain in her heart that hadn't managed to go away after four years. Four freaking years. If she had started high school when Erin left, she would have graduated by now.

 

Pathetic.

 

She spun around in her spinny chair for a few minutes, thinking. She could email that chick she knew at Oxford, see if she could bum around her lab for a bit. Or the guy in Germany. Germany was nice this time of year, right? CERN had kept her so busy that she hadn't had time to make any new friends. And besides, everyone there mainly spoke French anyway, and Holtzmann's “bonjour bonjour je m'appelle baguette” only got her so far most days.

 

Oh, she could take a French class. That was a good idea. She'd torn a strip off an advert for a conversational French class and had even started to email the address on it, but right at that moment something exploded and she had to take care of it before this dimension collapsed into another. At least that was her story, and she was sticking to it. The draft should have still been in her draft folder. She could finish it now, send it in the morning. Boom. Productive.

 

She logged onto her email. She hadn't checked it in weeks; there were 400 unread messages. Probably nothing important. Oh, wait. Her visa was expiring. Crap. She scrolled to the top quickly to avoid looking at it. The first email in her inbox had just arrived minutes ago.

 

“A Job For The Ghostbusters!”

 

Oh, thank God. Holtzmann sighed in relief. Maybe she would have an excuse not to learn French after all. She clicked on it, impatiently waiting for it to load.

 

_Dear Ghostbusters:_

 

_My name is Emile Mondevarius and I am the owner of the theme park Spooky Island. I doubt you have heard of it –_

 

Holtzmann had. She'd wanted to go, for a break, but was vetoed by the entire rest of the team.

 

– _as our “ghosts” have mainly been conceived for tourism purposes. However, recently there has been a spike in what I believe to be genuine paranormal activity on a worrying scale. Objects move, sometimes causing severe personal harm. Damage to theme park rides has resulted in delays and injuries. Once, our “Flying Dutchman” ride was suspended in the completely upright position for nearly a minute, something which is impossible according to the laws of physics as we know them. Thank God there were no guests on the ride at the time. I wouldn't be so worried if it did not directly affect the visitors to my park. They arrive normal, slightly rowdy students and leave drastically changed for the worse. I don't know if this is because they are traumatized by what they have seen here or if there is something even darker at play, but it is unsettling to say the least._

 

_I am begging you, please at least take a look at what is happening. You are the foremost experts in this field. I will pay for all of your expenses. And, of course, should you find something, even conclusive evidence that my fear of paranormal activity is just the sad paranoia of an old man, I will pay you a sum of $50,000 for your troubles._

 

_Please respond quickly._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Mr. Emile Mondevarius_

 

Holtzmann spun around in her chair, whooping. She clicked on “reply”:

 

_yooo dude cool._

 

A moment of hesitation. Her fingers twitched over the keyboard.

 

_I'm in._

 


	2. Chapter 2

“And when she's gone / there's that old melancholy feeling / and a sense of guilt I can't deny”

– ABBA, “Slipping Through My Fingers”

  
  


July 22nd, 2022  
9:24 A.M.  
Battle Creek, Michigan

 

Erin _hated_ funerals.

 

They were so useless. And she hated the way she looked in black, washed out, paler than usual. She rubbed her face and glared at herself in the mirror, willing some color to appear in her cheeks. She turned to look at Rita, who was dabbing on perfume. “Do you think my cheeks would get red if I slapped them?”

 

“You're trying to punish yourself because you can't find a proper outlet for your grief,” was Rita's matter-of-fact reply.

 

“Well, can I use your blush then?” Erin asked, annoyed.

 

“Fine.” Rita walked over and handed Erin her makeup bag.

 

“Thank you,” Erin said and started applying the blush with careful brushstrokes. “Oh, can you take my phone? This dress doesn't have pockets.” She fumbled for her phone with one hand and held it out.

 

“You're trying to isolate yourself from the outside world to overcompensate for the guilt you feel,” Rita said. She took the phone anyway.

 

Erin sighed and turned back to the mirror. “How much time do we have?”

 

“Fifteen minutes.” Rita side-eyed Erin. “You're fine. It'd be weird if you looked too put together.”

 

Erin put down the blush and looked at herself disdainfully.

 

–

 

August 29th, 1993  
10:17 A.M.  
Battle Creek, Michigan

 

Erin swung her legs back and forth, back and forth, mentally going over everything she'd packed. Toothbrush, toothpaste. Obviously. She had her bedding and towels in a big plastic bag that was nestled next to her bed. All of her clothes were packed. It wasn't a big deal if she forgot anything anyway. University of Michigan was only an hour and a half away, so if anything was _too_ important...

 

A rush of excitement over came her, tingling down her spine. Erin flopped back onto her bed, drumming her hands on her stomach. All night, she'd been up, waiting for morning like it would never come. And now it was here – now, Abby's parents were picking her up in a mere forty-three minutes, and they'd be moved in by one, and Abby and her had already gone shopping for posters and lab equipment and snazzy new blazers that made them look really grown up and professional. Erin blew air out of her nose, repressing a squeal. College was here. _Finally._ And she couldn't wait to be free, to have classes with people who didn't know a thing about her, and to continue her research with Abby. This was the start of her real life. She could feel it.

 

She just wanted to double-check if she'd packed her toothbrush first. Just to be sure.

 

Erin got up and padded over to the bathroom. Toothbrush gone. Packed. She realized that she could have just checked her duffel bag and laughed nervously, glancing into the mirror. Her skin was clear, her hair looked nice. By all accounts, she was ready. She strode back to her room with purpose. She'd take a look at her childhood toys, the framed picture of her and her cousins at an amusement park. A ritual goodbye, even though she'd be back most weekends to do laundry, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and summer breaks. This was a step forward. _Finally._ No more Ghost Girl. No more therapy she didn't need (not that Erin was opposed to therapy in general. She just didn't need a therapist to tell her parents that she was just attention-seeking and all that other crap she'd overheard).

 

Everything was good. Erin looked down, inspecting her blouse for bits of fuzz. Nothing. Okay. Now she could sit on her bed and wait for the doorbell to ring and Abby's excited shouting to float up from the driveway. Erinn could practically hear her shouting “GO WOLVERINES!” already. Erin looked down at her blouse again, suddenly hating the way the buttons warped and the cloth strained when she breathed. Quickly, she unbuttoned her shirt and took it off, digging through her duffel bag for something better to wear. Something casual. Something that screamed “I'm smart but I'm also cool” without screaming “I'm desperate for attention.”

 

There were footsteps in the hall.

 

“What is it?” Erin called, finally finding a v-neck that seemed casual enough.

 

“Erin?”

 

Erin sighed, exasperated. “I'm not wearing a shirt, Mom. Hold on.”

 

“Take your time.” Her voice was thick. Erin thought she heard sniffling. Crap. She'd only seen her mother cry three times before: once while reading _The Joy Luck Club,_ the other two times at funerals.

 

Erin pulled the shirt on and opened her bedroom door.

 

“I have to go to work,” her mother said, wiping her eyes. “When is Abby coming to pick you up?”

 

“Eleven,” Erin said. Something in her faltered, a sort of irritation, or maybe a deep nostalgia.

 

“Have a good first day at college,” her mother said. Her nose was red. “I'll see you in two weeks.”

 

“Still have to do my laundry here,” Erin tried to joke. The sting in her eyes didn't fade.

 

“I'm very proud of you, Erin,” Mrs. Gilbert said softly.

 

Erin swallowed. “Thank you.”

 

“I know it hasn't always been easy,” her mother continued, looking off to the side, “but you will always have a home here.”

 

“Okay.” Erin tried to smile.

 

Still not making eye contact, her mother walked forward and hugged her stiffly. With a start, Erin realized how much taller she'd become; her mother seemed tiny, about to disappear in her arms. After a moment, they stepped back from each other. Erin covered her eyes, trying not to let her mother see that she was crying.

 

“I'm going to go now.” Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat. “Lock the door on your way out.”

 

–

 

July 22nd, 2022  
11:32 A.M.  
Battle Creek, Michigan

 

“I'm so sorry.” Her neighbor, Mr. Henson, was a tall, thin man who always had damp hands. Erin, momentarily forgetting herself, actually wiped her palm on her dress after they shook hands, and pretended not to notice that he had noticed. “Your mother was a wonderful lady. Tall, graceful –”

 

Like a giraffe. The image nearly made Erin burst into hysterical laughter.

 

“-- always with a kind word...” Mr. Henson's voice trailed off. Erin blinked at him. “We will all miss her tremendously.”

 

“Same,” Erin said and blinked again.

 

“The ceremony was beautiful,” Mr. Henson tried.

 

“Yes. Beautiful.” Erin flashed him a tight-lipped smile.

 

“Death is the destiny of every person,” Mr. Henson quoted, like Erin hadn't been in the first row of pews alternately trying not to laugh and not to cry. “So beautiful.”

 

Erin swallowed. “Yeah, that's... that's some good stuff.” She rubbed her nose. “I'm going to go check on the, uh –” she desperately tried to think of something to say. “The burial thing,” she whispered and backed away.

 

“What'd he want?” Rita muttered, putting a hand on Erin's back so they wouldn't crash into each other.

 

Erin crossed her arms and looked around. “He just … normal stuff. Sorry stuff.”

 

“Ah.” Rita raised her eyebrows. “By the way, your phone keeps going off.”

 

“Oh, jeez,” Erin said, digging in Rita's purse for her phone. “Of course this would be the one day of my life anyone actually wants to talk to me.”

 

Rita looked around to see if anyone was listening, then leaned in closer to Erin. “You use self-deprecating language to distract from your very real and damaging self-hatred,” she whispered.

 

Erin rolled her eyes. “Your face uses self-deprecating language to distract from your very real and damaging self-hatred,” she shot back. Rita didn't seem offended. Erin gave up. “It's the same sender as yesterday,” she said, scrolling through her inbox. “Wow, six emails. Someone's desperate.”

 

“Maybe you should see what the person wants,” Rita suggested.

 

“How about no?” Erin suggested right back. “It's a Ghostbusting gig. I don't do that anymore.”

 

“Erin –”

 

“I'm just going to turn my notifications off,” Erin said and dumped her phone back into Rita's purse.

 

–

 

July 22nd, 2022  
10:45 A.M.  
Chicago, Illinois

 

Without thinking, Abby pulled up the email again.

 

It was such an enticing offer – not only the free food and the free lodging and the free money but the work. Even if the haunting was just – how did the old man put it? – “sad paranoia” it would give her something to do. If there were ghosts, she could probably even write an article about it, solo busting versus group busting, the differences, the pros and cons. Okay. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She could do this by herself. Then again, maybe the guy didn't even want just her; maybe he wanted all of the Ghostbusters. _Well, buddy,_ Abby thought, _that's not going to happen, so you're just going to have to settle._

 

She pressed “reply.”

 

_Dear Mr. Mondevarius,_

 

_I would love –_

 

She deleted “love.” He was asking her for a favor and she didn't need to be so excited about it.

 

_I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to perform research at your facility. I am currently based in Chicago, Illinois at the University of Chicago and would be able to leave for your theme park at the earliest Monday morning._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Dr. Abigail Yates_

 

She pressed “send” and leaned back in her chair, wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into.

 

–

 

July 22nd, 2022  
6:30 P.M.  
Meyrin, Switzerland

 

Holtzmann fiddled with the machine, wondering if she should cut the power while she was gone. It would probably be a good idea. But then she'd have to turn it back on when she came back, and that always took _forever_ –

 

But on the other hand, explosions. She turned it off.

 

She made a quick mental list of everything she had to do before she left. Her flight was at 8 A.M. Monday morning – she'd already received a travel itinerary from Mr. Mondevarius, who was apparently even more desperate than he had sounded in the email – and she had to eat everything in her fridge by then so that it wouldn't go bad while she was gone. It was a good thing she didn't have plants because at least that meant that no one had to come in and water them. Her apartment would be fine, probably. She barely used it anyway.

 

But _god,_ she would have to wake up early. She drummed her fingers against her desk and sighed, then picked up the phone on her desk and dialed Dr. Gorin's extension.

 

“Rebecca Gorin.”

 

Holtzmann blew a piece of hair out of her face. At least she'd gotten the cute French receptionist this time, Lea, the one who always had delicate stitched patterns on her headscarf and wore t-shirts from the CERN gift shop for fun. Dr. Gorin's other receptionist was an overconfident British douchebag who had once told Holtzmann she didn't look like a lesbian because she was wearing a necklace. Anyway. Holtzmann cleared her throat. “Ho - la –”

 

“Holtzmann, we are in Switzerland,” Lea said, the “h” of “Holtzmann” disappearing in her accent.“If you are going to butcher a foreign language, it might as well be French.”

 

“Are you sure you want me to do that?” Holtzmann asked.

 

“On second thought, please don't,” Lea replied quickly. “Anyway, what do you want?”

 

“Can I talk to Dr. Gorin, please?” Holtzmann smiled and batted her eyelashes, even though Lea wouldn't be able to see her.

 

There was a faint rustling on the other end of the time. “Yes, hold on.”

 

“You're the best, Princess Lea,” Holtzmann called.

 

“Jillian.” Dr. Gorin did not sound amused. She did not sound unamused, either. She just sounded like Dr. Gorin.

 

Holtzmann clacked her teeth together. “Hello, Dr. Gorin. How are you on this –”

 

“You should be going home soon.” Dr. Gorin was probably looking at her watch. “Home for the month.”

 

“You will be pleased to hear that I have found an alternative to the unicorn,” Holtzmann said. “Also can you please drive me to the airport at five a.m. on Monday,” she muttered into the receiver.

 

There was a pause. “What?” Dr. Gorin asked.

 

“Going deaf in your old age, are you,” Holtzmann said. “It's a –”

 

“You were mumbling,” Dr. Gorin replied. “What do you want?”

 

Holtzmann sighed. “Can you drive me to the airport at five in the morning on Monday? I don't feel like taking the train-thing.”

 

“It's public transportation, Jillian. An alternative for people who refuse to get Swiss driver's licenses, like you.” She coughed. “What are you even doing?”

 

At least it wasn't a no. “Project?”

 

Dr. Gorin sighed loudly. “Fine. Be outside your apartment building. I'm not waiting.”

 

“You're the best –”

 

Dr. Gorin hung up with a click.

 

–

 

July 22nd, 2022  
1:46 P.M.  
New York, New York

 

“Patty?” The top of Kevin's head peeked out over the fire-pole-hole (which was what Patty had been calling it since day one). “I got an email and I think it's for you.”

 

“Well done, Kevin!” Patty shouted, excited. It was the third time Kevin had mentioned getting an email he thought was meant for her – and three times was a pattern, not just a fluke in the system. The system being Kevin's brain. “Can you forward it to me?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Kevin mumbled and disappeared back down to the ground floor.

 

Patty opened up her inbox. For a second, she thought there was a glitch, but no. She had six copies of the exact same email she'd received the day before, from the sender to the cheery subject line ( _A Job For The Ghostbusters!_ really, was the exclamation point necessary?)

 

“Fine,” she muttered. “If your desperate ass is that pathetic –”

 

She clicked on the email and began to read, nodding along to herself silently. The park seemed vaguely familiar – hadn't Holtzmann mentioned it once or twice, a suggestion for a vacation spot? Patty thought she remembered the resounding no's from the rest of the team. Okay, the offer wasn't too bad. Basically a paid vacation. And a couple of maybe Class IV's she could deal with on-site. More interesting than the disembodied hands she'd been seeing lately.

 

Patty sighed, burying her face in her hands. Why was she considering this?

 

She leaned back and reached for her cell phone, dialing the first number on speed dial. It rang one, twice, three times –

 

“Dr. Tolan, with all due respect, is this an emergency?”

 

“Nice to hear your voice too, Sara.” Patty crossed her arms.

 

In the background, someone sleepily murmured “what's going on?”

 

“Oh, crap.” Patty smiled apologetically even though Sara wouldn't see and probably wouldn't have been swayed. “I'm so sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”

 

“You forgot about the time difference,” Sara repeated flatly.

 

“I can call back later,” Patty said, voice subdued.

 

Rustling on the other end of the line. “It's okay, I'm up.”

 

“I'm so sorry,” Patty said again.

 

“It's okay, Dr. Tolan.” Sara didn't seem _too_ pissed. “What's going on?”

 

“I was wondering if you would be comfortable with running HQ for about two weeks.” Patty spun her chair around, letting her feet drag on the floor. “You know how little we've been seeing lately. You can email me if anything goes wrong –”

 

“You're leaving me alone with Kevin?” Sara coughed. “Patty, he asked me if I speak Singaporese.”

 

“Okay, Kevin's coming with me,” Patty decided spontaneously. “Is that cool with you? I got a project but it's not that important, I can just tell the guy no –”

 

“Dr. Tolan, it's fine,” Sara said. “I'm coming back on Sunday – I'll be jetlagged as hell, but –”

 

“You know there are no ghosts around here anymore,” Patty said. “I really just need you to house-sit.”

 

“Absolutely,” Sara said. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

 

–

 

July 24th, 2022  
4:30 P.M.  
Battle Creek, Michigan

 

Erin strode around her living room, kicking up tiny clouds of dust whenever she dragged her feet on the floor.

 

“You're making your socks dirty,” Rita said flatly, not looking up from her magazine. She was sprawled on the floor with her legs in the air. She turned the page.

 

“I really don't like that realtor,” Erin mused, stepping over a patch where she had once vomited when she was seven years old because she ate too many grapes. “Did I tell you that, when we went out to lunch, she ordered her burger on some type of fancy French bread that cost like five dollars more?”

 

“Didn't get enough love in her childhood.” Rita smirked. She turned the page again.

 

“That's what you say for everything,” Erin retorted. She stopped walking. “Are you just looking at the pictures?”

 

The doorbell rang.

 

“I think someone's coming to look at the big wardrobe today,” Rita said, slowly getting to her feet. “I'll check.”

 

Erin sat on the floor and looked at the wall, the faded patches where the sunlight had hit it, the darker patches where pictures of Erin and her parents and her little dog, Corky had been displayed and blocked the sun.

 

Footsteps. She didn't turn.

 

“Erin, there's someone here for you.”

 

“Oh, more condolences,” Erin snapped, getting up. “Lovely. 'I'm so sorry for your loss.' Never heard that one before!”

 

Rita titled her head. “Social connections are vital –”

 

Erin ignored her and walked towards the door.

 

“Hello,” a young man said. Erin tilted her head and squinted. She didn't think she'd ever seen him before.

 

Probably a cousin.

 

“Hi,” Erin said. “Can I.. can I help you?”

 

“It's wonderful to meet you, Dr. Gilbert,” the young man said.

 

Not a cousin.

 

“I'm here on behalf of Mr. Emile Mondevarius,” he continued and smiled brightly. His teeth were a blinding, unnatural white. “You've received his emails?”

 

“No,” Erin said, wrinkling her forehead.

 

The man looked a little confused. “Phone calls?”

 

Erin shrugged.

 

“The pigeon he sent to your window?” Now the guy seemed to be getting really worried.

 

“Oh, right.” Erin chewed on her bottom lip. “I think it may have flown against the glass a little too hard.”

 

“That's okay!” Now he was back to full-perky mode. It was almost frightening. “Anyway, Mr. Mondevarius wants you to investigate at haunting. At his theme park.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Erin said, going to close the door. “I don't really do that kind of stuff anymore. He should ask –” the names of her friends – former friends, Erin reminded herself firmly – faltered on her lips. “Someone else. He should ask someone else.”

 

“Dr. Gilbert, it's an all-expenses paid trip,” the young man said. “$50,000 dollars if you help him. Please.”

 

“I'm sorry.” Erin closed the door until there was only a crack left open. “I just can't do it right now.”

 

The door closed with a thud. Erin slid down to the floor against it, banging her head on the slot for the mail on the way down. She sighed, suddenly cold. Everything inside her felt shaky and wobbly, kind of like she was crumbling apart from the inside. Why was she crying again? Pathetic. She hated crying. She tried to stay quiet, so Rita wouldn't hear and come over or try to talk to her.

 

“Erin?”

 

Too late.

 

“I'm tired,” Erin snapped. “I think I'm going to nap.” She got up and started speed-walking towards her room, only to remember that that wasn't her room anymore because they'd cleaned the entire thing out and her childhood bed was rotting in a dumpster somewhere. She changed course towards the only couch left in the house and hoped it wouldn't collapse under her weight.

 

“Erin –”

 

Rita caught up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Erin spun around, ready to scream.

 

“I know I'm not very good helping you with it but I want you to be okay,” Rita said. “And this town is not doing anything for you.”

 

“I have to sell the house first,” Erin said harshly. Her bottom lip trembled. “I have to clean this up.”

 

“I'll do it.” Rita crossed her arms. “You need to get out of here.”

 

“Yes,” Erin said, “let me just get my giant suitcase full of money –”

 

“Cut the bullshit, Erin.” Rita swallowed. “All expenses paid. I heard the man. Go on that trip.”

 

“It's too late anyway,” Erin said triumphantly. “He's gone.”

 

“I'll chase him down,” Rita suggested. “You've spent the last four years basically just in this house. Maybe a five mile radius around this house and that's it.” She shook her head. “That's sad, Erin. You're –” she stopped a pulled a face. “-- I was gonna say your prime but you're too old for your prime, sorry. You're sort of in the prime of your later adult life and you need to _live.”_

 

Erin stiffened. “It's too late.”

 

There was a click by the door. A business card peeked out of the mail slot.

 

“I'll call him for you,” Rita said, breezing by Erin and going to pick up the business card. “Do you want a vegetarian meal on the plane? Extra pretzels?”

 

“Stop that.” Erin snatched the business card out of Rita's hand. “I'll call him myself.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they will all actually interact at some point! Very soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at localgaysian!


End file.
